


this hour (and what lives)

by fiddleogold_againstyoursoul



Series: the universe in which i love you [1]
Category: Prey (Video Game 2017)
Genre: A lot of introspection, Identity Issues, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Simulation, morgan is a narcissist, morgan recites poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 14:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15753657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul/pseuds/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul
Summary: After the simulation, there are two people struggling with identity. Or rather, there is Morgan, and there is the monster he made in his image.





	this hour (and what lives)

When you are someone. Have been someone for longer than you've been yourself. Breathed as him, lived as him, felt as him -- anger, fear, pain, only to have it all stripped away with the push of a button, the crisp cold of  _nothing_ except for that all-consuming blackness resettling in over you. What are the implications of that on identity? It doesn't know. It doesn't know itself, either, divorced from the Coral. The things it knows number few, but precious few. It knows Morgan. It knows Morgan intimately, all his idiosyncrasies and secrets, the nervous tics and automated responses. It has memorised the length, weight, feel of his body, the balance with which he carries his step. It can pinpoint the register of his regular, everyday voice with accuracy that would best a supercomputer; it knows what that voice sounds like broken, twisted with confusion, desperation, frustration. It knows what it is like to  _be_ Morgan Yu. It knows nothing else but that.

Once, it might have known something else, but that is not very likely, and furthermore, that is not very relevant. Once, it was something else. Whatever it knew then belongs to that something else. 

_What am I now, then?_

The thought is unnecessary. It disappears as soon as it comes. In a fashion picked up from hours spent in Morgan's head, it tries to cling onto that flickering question. Humans are predisposed towards running away with their curiosity, catching onto that courseless train and riding away with it, off the tracks and into the grass; Typhon not so much. The train analogy surprises, confuses it. Surprise and confusion are also parts of Morgan it can't fully shake off. There are too many things pushing forward, demanding attention in its head. It shuts it all off. Tries to reconnect to the Coral. Nothing. All black, everything. The question floats back, palpable:  _What am I now?_

It examines itself. The light is dim in its chamber. (Alex called it a room, but what room has specially reinforced glass, a door in and out that only responds to the scientists?) Still, its eyes were not made to rely on reflection. It can see the swirling black tendrils that on Morgan were limbs. It thinks about being Morgan again, seeing those limbs for the first time on a shape outside a sliding glass door, the revulsion in his thudding head. Revolting, then. There is a start. It is being contained, and it is revolting. These two things are not necessarily to do with each other. It is being contained because it is dangerous -- another thing it knows, now, about itself. Or because it is not trusted. It is not trusted because it is Typhon. And it is revolting because --

Well, because --

If it were still Morgan, it would be frowning. It does not have (want, need) the capacity for such means of communication now. There is no one to communicate this (?) to, for starters. Whatever (?) it is feeling, it would rather not be known. With a start it realises this was also how Morgan liked his thoughts -- shut away, tight. Not even Mikhaila --

Hmm.

That it knows their names. That it can associate the person with the name: Mikhaila, the ex, dying of paraplexis, Mikhaila, the operator in the simulation room. That it remembers her and remembers how it -- no, Morgan felt about her. This is a success on their part, it believes. This is what was set out to be achieved. Therefore there is an update to what it knows of itself: it is being contained, it is revolting, and it is a success story. By logic of inference, there must have been failures. That much could be confirmed by the relief in Alex's eyes when it took his hand. Took, not shook. Let's shake things up again. It feels shaken. Not in the sense that it is disturbed by its thoughts. Rather the thoughts overwhelming each other now have a common, underlying theme, which it picks out and simplifies. Another question.

_Am I revolting because Morgan thought me revolting?_

It does not know the Typhon as itself. It knows them as Morgan did. The accompanying revulsion and fear. The Typhon cannot exist outside the context of  _other_ in the memory it is currently backpedalling to when it needs to answer its own questions. There is no sense of self except that of Morgan's, but it cannot be Morgan. What else, what else? It is not scared of itself. It is not scared of Alex, or any of the other scientists. It could easily overpower them if it wished. It no longer has the capacity -- or at least, on a similar scale -- for fear, the one that Morgan did. If it feels Morgan's revulsion for the Typhon, where is the fear, then?

So no. The answer to the question is no. It is revolting for some other reason than Morgan finding it so.

"It's here." Alex's voice. It retreats back into the darkness. It knows it is hidden, and it knows it does not matter. "Fruition."

Fruit. It is fruit of someone's -- them, Alex (Morgan?) -- labour. 

Someone else might be speaking. It cannot hear them.

"It's resting," Alex says.

It is not. 

"Are you sure?" Alex asks. The person with him is sure, but not convincingly enough the first time, because Alex repeats the question three more times. Satisfied with the fourth answer, footsteps tap towards the chamber. It can't help it. It wants to be seen. Its limbs shrink, skin shifts, spine twists. It is wearing Morgan's face, Morgan's body again. Alex flips a switch, and the lights in the chamber come on. A gasp. Muted. It scans the arrivals quickly: Alex, looking wearier and older than ever. Someone tell him he should sleep now. Beside Alex is a shape it would recognise through a blizzard. There. Another all too human analogy. Has Morgan ever seen a blizzard? Morgan. It steps towards the glass, suddenly, hands shifting to press up against the panel between it and...and...

"My name is Morgan." The perfect register. "You're, uh, you're a handsome fella, aren't you?"

"Careful, such unbridled narcissism is unbecoming." Alex rolls his eyes as if he is the supreme authority on humility. "Morgan, meet...well. I think no introduction on my end would suffice."

It says nothing. It watches Morgan, through the glass. Morgan, whose eyes are tired, too, but also curious. Conflicted. Proud. It reads all of these not because it was programmed to, but because it knows what these emotions look like on Morgan's face. It wonders if it can mirror them exactly. If Morgan will know, even if it did.

"Can he speak?"

He. That surprises it.

"It...has the capacity." Alex is careful with his words here. It wonders why. It wonders if maybe Morgan's interest is in direct opposition to those of the scientists. "You can try conversing with it, but you won't get very much out." Morgan frowns. 

"Do you have a name?"

"No," it says. The perfect register. Morgan blinks, as if the voice is more startling than the face, the body, the way it assumes Morgan's form exactly. Down to the way he stands. Alex looks affronted, too. They both stand and stare at it. It stands and stares back. Its hands are still pressed to the glass in a way that will leave fingerprints. Morgan's fingerprints. What must it look like, it wonders? Does Morgan see it now as no more than just a sentient reflection? It hates the idea. It does not know how to fear, or how to hold onto discarded thoughts, but it knows how to hate. There is something universal about that. It  _resents._ That it is here, trapped, that it was lied to, that it is a pawn in Alex and Morgan's game of chess against its own kind that it does not remember. That Alex and Morgan, arrogant and all-assuming, are watching it. Something flickers over Morgan's face: maybe he understands the blankness behind his reflection's eyes.

"Do you want one?"

It considers this question. Morgan's tongue sits heavy in its mouth. Or an imitation of it. Dialogue like this, where it is fully aware of the choices it can make or not make, is different. It does not have to earn either of their respect; that much was accomplished through the simulation. It does not have to tell them the truth. The judge and jury phase is over. It is a diplomat in training, presumably -- though little training it has been given thus far -- and what a diplomat does is gather information. It does not have to speak to do just that. Whether it is named or not, is irrelevant. As long as it knows when it is being addressed. It communicates this non-answer the way Morgan would: it shrugs.

"I like him," Morgan says, after a long pause.

"You will have plenty of time to change your mind about that." Alex checks his watch. "I have to attend a meeting."

"At this hour of night?"

"Not everybody works on my clock, Morgan." 

"Don't mind him," Morgan says, when Alex has gone. "He's only gotten more crabby over the years. You might have picked up on that, in the sim." It looks at him. Really looks at him. In some ways he is different from the Morgan it simulated. In gait and modulation, it is a flawless replication. But age and exhaustion have touched Morgan's face, and the skin is tighter, sallower. He has lost some of the arrogance that set his frame wide and straight. Or maybe the arrogance was a glamour, and there is no need for the glamour anymore. Which reminds it.

Morgan's eyes are still inquisitive when it slips out of his skin. His curiosity is tangible.

"Does it strain you, to look like me?" he asks. It is not sure whether to answer. It cannot speak, in this form, but if it shifted back...

The answer is no. Well, not exactly. It is not difficult for it to assume Morgan's form, because it knows Morgan. It does not strain its mind to remember the distance from Morgan's kneecap to his ankle bone, or the curvature of his jaw, or the width of his palms and the perpetual heat behind them.  _Strain._ What a human way to describe the process. Typhon, it's sure, though it isn't sure of anything anymore, don't think of things in such terms. Straining, difficult, strenuous. Of course there is a limit to what their bodies can do, but the limit is self-recognised. They are built the way they are, designed with specific purpose by which they purport to carry out. It isn't too sure about the last bit. Typhon, little as it knows of them, don't seem to subscribe to any philosophy. Purpose should be no exception. Although.

"Does it hurt?"

Pain. Something a little more universal. Not quite as universal as hate, but... 

It shakes its head. Morgan's eyes are transfixed on its face. It's not sure what he sees there. A great, gaping mass of black, of course. Are there eyes? There must be. It presses in a little closer, trying to catch any reflection in Morgan's blown-up pupils. 

"You resent us," Morgan says.

It does not need to answer this. It does not need to engage at all, all this time. 

"I can feel it. If you weren't bound by the promise you made Alex..." He trails off. He seems unsure how to finish, like what he says actually matters but the _why_ is uncertain. Uncertainty is something it understands a little too well at this point. It feels the impulse to reach through the glass and touch him. Were that it was actually possible, why would he let it? It wants to consume him. Know firsthand what it might feel, to have Morgan Yu dying in its grip. "Hey," Morgan says. His voice is uncharacteristically soft. "I'm sorry. The sim was designed to be as immersive as possible...you might feel robbed, of that life. I get it. I was trapped in a sim for some long, long time as well." It knows this already. It doesn't need to hear old information. He seems to sense its impatience.

"You want to come out."

 _I want to kill you,_ it thinks. The thought isn't vicious. It's matter-of-fact. Conditioning. Or rather...nature. _Conditioning_ is the empathy.  _Conditioning_ is the lingering bits of Morgan in its mind, all scrambled up and persistent.  _Nature_ is all the Typhon is, but. Is it really Typhon anymore?

"They've greenlit you in the tests. I could let you out."

A species is classified by its common characteristics. If all it remembers of the Typhon is that they do not care or feel when it does, do not wonder like it's been doing, are not designed for some specific purpose like it has been, are connected to the Coral which it no longer is -- or even plausibly, never was -- then can it call itself Typhon?

"Would you want that?" Morgan asks, like in front of him isn't a creature falling apart.

It shifts. Morgan, again, and Morgan doesn't mind, even though he's startled. It must be startling. A monster pretending to be you, sitting in your skin. It nods, and the nod is desperate, and Morgan smiles and presses a button somewhere, it doesn't remember, it should commit to memory. The glass slides open. It is free. 

 

* * *

 

It doesn't kill him.

It falls into step behind him, instead, and they walk down the hall. Morgan knows the place better than it does, of course. "We're constantly hurtling through space," he is saying, now. It only barely listens. It is tracing the way his shirt is tapered to his back, how even despite the ageing and thinning and rusting away from former glory, Morgan is still somebody who you'd look at twice. This attraction, of course, is defined in human terms. Typhon do not lust. Of that at least it is sure. Nevertheless, Morgan is good-looking. "No fixed coordinates, nowhere the Typhon would think to look. Nowhere they could get on, either." He sounds proud of that, as if his previous pride was not utterly shattered by the fact that the Typhon  made it Earthside after all. "We have a base on Earth, of course, but Alex said it was safer -- safer, as if that matters anymore --" and he's laughing, and it thinks, _hubris was the death of the Yus and it hasn't even stopped killing them yet,_  "-- if we had it up here. In space. Where it all began, so to speak. They wouldn't let me watch you in the sim. I understand their concerns, of course. If you woke up suddenly and saw me, who you were supposed to be...let's just say that's how one of the previous subjects was retired."

It lets him speak. It wants to touch him. The same hunger as before, the hunger for consumption, except.

Same kind of low, low desire. Different mechanism by which it can be satisfied.

"I wish you'd talk to me," Morgan says. "Alex and I, we're the only flesh and blood on this ship. The Operators don't quite cut it."

"I'm not flesh and blood, either." 

Some of the tension goes out of the shoulders in front of it.

"You're halfway there. A voice and a body -- real, warm body. That's all there is to company."

"You're your own company, like this," it says, walking faster so their shoulders touch. "How does this alleviate your loneliness?"

"Who said I was lonely?"

"You are trying to converse with a Typhon."

"What difference does it make?" Morgan stops walking. It stops, too. He stares at it, looks it over. "God. Look at that. That was how I looked when this whole shitshow started. Look at me now. Not so pretty anymore, huh?"

"You are a vain man," it says. Observation, not insult. Morgan's smile is tired. He isn't insulted by the truth.

"Vain enough to recognise how far I've fallen."

Fallen, no. Not in terms of looks, at least. It steps closer to Morgan, who steps back. Another step, and another, until it's got Morgan pressed against the wall and there's nothing but his noisy, stuttering breathing between them. His pupils are dilated again. Fear is universal. It wonders,  _does he fear death?_ And then,  _does he fear me?_

"I can't say I haven't dreamed about this," Morgan says, putting a warm hand on its abdomen. It  _feels_ that. It shouldn't. It has skin, of course, and human skin is much more responsive to this kind of stimuli. In this body, it has nerves, too, or at least a simulation of those networks. Everything is connected. It studies the flecks in Morgan's eyes, the marks on his skin. His eyelashes grow out irregularly, sparse in some areas, like he's been picking at them. Nervous tic, it thinks. He has a week's worth of stubble on his face. He is unkept, but not unattractive. "Is that vainer? To admit you fantasise about yourself?"

"I am not you," it says. Certain.

"But you know me. Have been me." The hand shifts. It would be lying if it pretended it wasn't affected by it. "I've lost everything. My parents tried to kill me with the KASPAR protocol -- I'm sure you remember." Not waiting for confirmation, he continues. "Alex -- well, I might as well be dead. I'm a ghost. You're as much me as me, really."

"Morgan --"

The name. On its tongue. It feels wrong, but Morgan reacts. He shifts back, puts his head on its shoulder. If anybody were to cross the corridor right now...but nobody comes.

"You have me in you," he says, close to its ear. "Isn't that what a person is? Memory?"

It pushes him away, returning to its form between states: gas, liquid, solid, all at once. Black, black, all black. Morgan stares. There's an abyss in his eyes. Empty, blank. In some ways he mirrors better than it does.  _Does this look like you?_ it wonders. Morgan flinches, like he can hear the question. Maybe he can. Maybe they took the Coral out of it, but there's a new network in place.  _What do you see, Morgan?_

"Company."

Maybe that's all it needs to be.

 

* * *

 

They are in Morgan's room. At least, it assumes. There is a single bed, sheets rumpled. A photograph on the table, face-down. Morgan pulls off his shoes and tucks them under a cupboard. Every time he moves, it understands a different, deeper dimension to him. Now it considers what it knows about Morgan. He is a prideful man, sure of himself -- rightfully so, but that's besides the point. He is reckless, for sure. Ambitious. Maybe fatally ambitious. After all, his mind is worth millions, even shot full of holes and battered beyond repair. There is a quiet resignation to the tight lines of his face. Once, maybe, they were cheerful. But then again. What you once were was another you. The Morgan it sees now is tired, so tired. Embittered by the world -- and himself, and trying desperately to atone. What he's done has crumbled a civilisation. And yet, and yet, he is not broken over the ruins. Therefore the biggest thing about Morgan, the most important, it thinks: he is trying to undo his mistakes, but he does not regret them. Its non-capacity for guilt empathises. There must be some dramatic irony in that.

Morgan crosses the room and lays himself on the bed. The action is smooth, like a fall, except this fall is calculated.

"Come," he says, almost drowsily. It does not. It stands there and looks at him, and he turns his face to the side so they can look at each other. He smiles. "Please."

_Why?_

"Please," he repeats. It's not an order. It's not a request, either. It's just a word. Morgan convinced his brother to doom the whole world, but can't take a monster to bed. This is the closest it's come to feeling amused by something, in its own skin. "You were right. I am lonely."

It materialises beside him. He isn't startled. His smile is beginning to slip off, the perfect mask turning to dust.

 _Tell me something,_ it thinks. Knowing now that he can hear it.  _Did you hear me when I was in the chamber?_

"You said you wanted to kill me." Morgan reaches out and grazes its...well, what would be its face. All that black nothing. The skin feels foreign. It can feel the touch, but not  _feel_ it: it isn't really, truly touching him. Not like skin to skin. More if a fire could feel when someone thrust their fingers through the flames. Analogies. It's getting much too comfortable with them. It tries now to conjure the image, memory, of a fire. Natural fire, not Typhon. It can't. It wants (wants?) to. "I heard you."

_And you still let me out._

"Company," he repeats.

_Tell me something else._

"Anything."

_I have questions._

"Anything, anything." Morgan laughs, and it breaks off bitterly. "I used to hate it, being questioned. That was Alex's job."

_Have you seen a train before? Running off its tracks?_

"Once," he breathes. "It was in the countryside. Mum brought us to China --"

_Do you think I'm revolting?_

Pause. Morgan stares. Stares. Like he's puzzled by the question, puzzled that it got into its head, puzzled that the seed of the idea was planted in the first place. It stares back, with the eyes it's sure it has. Fairly certain, anyways. "No," he says. "No, I don't think you're revolting." It searches his face for hints of a lie. If he were lying now it would leave. Not kill him, not kill Alex, just leave. Find some way off this ship to fester in its own existential despair. The realisation comes that it will find nothing in that face: Morgan, even fatigued and desperately lonely, is composed. Mask not all the way cracked to the bone, his skin is still painted. There is nothing in those dark, seeing eyes, that open mouth, that will betray him. "Do you think you are? I am?"

It assembles a face long enough to frown. Morgan's teeth bare in a delighted grin, as if the illusion sliding on and off entertains him. Maybe they're both wearing masks.

 _You are not repulsed by this,_ it thinks. 

"No." His grin melts. "I've seen a lot worse."

_Because of the Typhon._

"Because of the Typhon," he echoes. "But because of me, too." Again: blank, flat statement. An admission with void where shame should be. Could be. Should, could. All these human  _maybes._ It places a hand -- or what should be a hand, anyways, all that twisting darkness -- on Morgan's chest, and he stills. His pupils are round and black, so big they nearly overwhelm the brown they're swimming in altogether. "You are our only hope at redemption."

_You aren't seeking redemption._

"I did what I thought was right." He tilts his head, presses his face deeper into the sheets. "I was wrong. But it doesn't change the intent." The hair falling into his eyes is long, greasy, greying. It knows how soft that hair would feel under human fingers. Morgan's heart is thudding a rapid, almost painful beat under its tendrils. His breathing is laboured again. "You know what I'm talking about." Does it? "You've been inside my head. I only wanted a better version of humanity. Stronger, faster, smarter. A world at our fingertips. All the collateral in the meantime was going to be outweighed by the benefits --" He trails off with a gasp. It has sunk the tendrils, sharp ends, into his soft, cotton shirt. Not enough to scratch, not enough to cut. But enough to hurt. That universal truth. "Stop. You're teasing."

_Your dream. The one about looking between the stars._

He shifts, but there is nowhere to go. He is trapped between a Typhon (or not a Typhon) and the weight of the world at his feet. "Yes," he says. "I finally figured out what was staring back."

It doesn't reply to that. It is wondering which question to ask next. There are so many, and there is an exhausted man lying on his bed, talking to a monster he created to get him out of the mess he's become. If it were kinder it would let him sleep. Or perhaps if it were kindest it would kill him. That would be charitable, really. Alex, Morgan, the Operators? They are all running on empty. Prisoners of their own device. The dark circles under Morgan's eyes, the meeting at this hour for Alex -- only death would rock the wicked to rest, when they are high on caffeine and the pretence that they could return what they have broken, mended anew.

"What are you thinking about?"

 _You,_ it thinks. Morgan smiles.

"I know."

It is a prompt, asking it to elaborate. It does not. It pushes hard, instead, and Morgan flops onto his back. It emerges over him. Body crackling. "You know, I've been in a lot of scuffles with Typhon," Morgan says, the trace of a laugh in his voice, "but I can never seriously say I've been propositioned by one."

 _If you take a picture of every room, every person you know, at the exact time you know them,_ it thinks.  _And someone views those photos. Does it make them you?_  

"No, but --"

_If you lived by a train all your life. Every day, saw it go down the same tracks, carrying the same type of people. Would viewing your memory of the train make someone you, the same person who originally viewed it?_

"Careful," Morgan says, after a long silence. "I think I might fall in love with you."

"With your own brain," it says, the perfect register. And then back again. _You redefine vanity. What am I, Morgan?_

"Company." 

_Experiment._

"Hope." Morgan reaches to touch its face. What does he feel? What does he see, all the black under his hands -- does it hurt to be in contact? "A way out." The fingers are a question, a request. Permission granted. It leans in, and Morgan inhales sharply: is the smoke filling his lungs? Is he, too, becoming partly it the way it is already partly him? This is a kiss, it thinks. It is not preoccupied with human terms, but Morgan is human, and it is preoccupied with him. It can feel his open, trembling mouth. It tries to be solid, to be weight, to give more than it is used to. Morgan's breath keeps hitching in his throat. "You're beautiful."

That is something new.

"I think you're more like me than you think."

_Beautiful?_

"No." Beatific smile. "You know what you are, outside of what others tell you. You draw your own conclusions. Even if they are non-sequiturs."

_I am more logical than you._

"I'm aware," Morgan says. "I watched the sim. There are a lot of things I would've done differently."

_Would've?_

"If I could do it again."

 _You cannot._ There is something satisfactory about that thought. Morgan exhales, deep.

"I'm aware."

He is falling asleep, it thinks. It feels the urge to let him. Curl up next to him and sleep for a long, long time. Tiredness is not Typhon. And yet. It lies beside him again, and he comes closer, unafraid. They are mirroring each other now. It is not afraid, so he is not. It is not angry because he is not. It loathes itself -- loathing, hatred, all such universal emotions -- because he does, too; it is arrogant and self-assured because he is. What a strange thing, to be proud of the thing you think revolting. Morgan's own worst enemy is not his parents, or his brother, or even the monster beside him now -- Morgan's worst enemy is himself. The man in the mirror.

"You're thinking about me when you could be talking to me," he says.

_You can talk._

There are the sounds of heavy boots from outside. They both still, but the footsteps pass their room by. "Alex," Morgan says. "He is...not exactly graceful, with announcing his presence." As much as he pretends not to, he cares. That much is visible. The lines of his face are softening slowly, and not just for want of sleep, either. "You get it." He is trying to connect. He needs that connection like he needs air, or water. It hums. The hum comes out wrong, garbled, layered with static, but his face softens further, so the message is received. "What will you tell them?"

_Them?_

"The Typhon."

_About you._

"I'm flattered." He thinks it is joking.

_That is all I know, Morgan._

"I know. I...like it, when you say my name."

There is guilt in that. It doesn't know what to make of this knowledge.

_I am not really saying anything._

"I know." He closes his eyes. "But I can pretend." Footsteps, again, further away. Alex must be very busy. So busy he hasn't noticed his brother, running off with their success story. No longer contained, no longer Typhon. "There is this [poem](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43326/this-hour-and-what-is-dead)," he says, eyes still shut. His face is not restful, though. It wonders what he must look like in the throes of sleep. "I think about it often. It's about...well, it's a ghost story."

It knows which poem he is talking about.

"I was reminded -- well. The front part. About the dead brother, walking through an empty house."

Alex's footsteps still echo down the hall. Or maybe that's its sensitive hearing.

"Someone tell him he should sleep now," Morgan recites, voice tight, teeth clamped. "It's asking...it's asking, what is he looking for?"

 _A way out,_ it suggests.

"At this hour?"

_The dead is restless._

"And the living is burning."

_While the Lord lives._

He smiles. He opens his eyes. They're bloodshot, and still, somehow, beautiful. Beautiful. What a strange terminology. What a subjective standard to be defined by. "I've had enough of the Lord's love," he says. "That is. That's one of my favourite poems." It knows all of them. [登鸛雀樓](https://eastasiastudent.net/china/classical/wang-zhihuan-stork-tower/), _Climbing White Stork Tower,_ by Wang Zhihuan. _[The Phantom Guest](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/phantom-guest), _ Natalie Clifford Barney. There are many others. An exhaustive, all-encompassing list. Morgan knows many languages -- even pre-Neuromod -- and his literary tastes reflect that. The concept of language, all its limitations, should bemuse the Typhon. They are not restricted by arbitrary boundaries, or sounds said different ways. Language is thieved and remade and returned, a jumble of stolen letters with flexible syntax. It, though, likes the complication, unnecessary as it is. "I haven't read in a while. It seems like everything is just -- in motion, always. Reading requires stillness. Solitude."

It does not agree, or disagree, because it has never read for itself. It has read through Morgan's eyes, flipped pages with his fingers.

 _I am bad company,_ it thinks.

"Why? Because you listen more than you speak? No, that's perfect."

_Because you enjoy the sound of your own voice._

"I enjoy hearing you in my head," he says, quietly. "You have a different voice."

_What does it sound like?_

"Difficult. To explain, I mean. It's different. It's not like --" He catches himself. It knows what he means.  _Not like the Typhon._ In the sim, the way they were whispering, echoing the voice of Alfred Rose. Chattering parrots, mimicking. "Sorry. I mean, it's unusual. Not a bad unusual. Sure welcome relief from the silence." His voice is getting softer, slower. It's dropped from his regular register. He is falling asleep. "Anything...anything that isn't one of those things, whispering at me. Or just nothing. That's what passes for good company. The rest of it is just noise, even silence."

_Go to sleep, Morgan._

He nods, like he's been waiting for it to say that. His breathing is steady. "Be here when I wake," he says. "Please."

_Where else would I go?_

"You know, it's funny." He's mumbling. He's falling asleep, and he still needs to get a word in edgewise. "I used to wish..."  _We weren't alone in the universe,_ it thinks, but he shakes his head. "I used to wish there would be no one like me in the world. That fear of being...outmatched, I guess." He smiles. Arrogant, even growing unconscious. "Before you, I wanted...I wanted all of them to fail. Isn't that selfish?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "It is. I'm...I'm selfish. I suppose." It touches his face. Curls long, black tendrils around his head, stroking his hair. It's the tenderest thing it can think to do without destroying what it's supposed to be entirely. The game it's playing. "And now you're here, and it's...different. From the Operators. You're you. You're...you know me, but you..." He struggles to collect his thoughts. "Fuck. You aren't me."

_You like that._

"I do."

He doesn't move, doesn't speak for a while. His eyelashes flutter in his sleep. Eyelids shifting. Already he's dreaming. It wonders what about. If it's the same dream, staring into the emptiness between the stars. It wonders if he's dreaming about himself. About the monster he made of himself, and the monster he made in his image. It thinks it might be able to see if it tried, if it tapped into the connection between their heads that Morgan has. 

But it doesn't want to.

It's not him, after all. It's not Typhon, and it's not human, and it's not an Operator. It is an experiment, a hope, an escape. It is itself. It is company. It is not evil. Nothing is evil. Evil, like beautiful, is subjective. Morgan does not think he is evil, though he killed many. Morgan does not think the Typhon are evil, though they are the root of humanity's destruction. Morgan's sense of evil might be warped, yes, but it does not disagree with his judgement. At least, not in this area. It might be beautiful. It might be revolting. Is it possible to be both? Disgust as much as attract? It thinks of the blood vessels, visible, in the whites of Morgan's eyes. Those in their own right are beautiful and revolting. Therefore it must be possible. It tries to rationalise this. It is still thinking in terms of Morgan, relatively to Morgan. But these thoughts...these thoughts, these inferences are independent, even if the patterns are not. It is equipped with his memories, his experiences, his loves and fears and hates, but it is growing beyond that. It was moulded in his image, but an image --

Are pictures of clouds and trees, truly clouds and trees?

"Morgan?"

Alex, at the door. It sits up and looks at him. They look at each other. Alex's face is empty.

"Is he asleep?"

"Yes," it says. The perfect register.

He casts a lingering look over the two. It can't tell what he is thinking. It is not relevant, for sure, but it might be useful. New information. Anything to update what it currently has. But no, nothing. The Yus keep their secrets drawn tight around them, and their masks, even if broken, are firmly settled over their faces.

"That's good," he says, finally. "He needs his sleep."

"As do you."

"At this hour?"

At this hour, what is human is asleep. And what pretends to be human is searching.

**Author's Note:**

> all the poems should be linked. i believe climbing white stork tower was in morgan's office? my man has good taste in literature.
> 
> i was reading morgan's journal -- the one with the concept art, timeline, etc. -- at night and woke up suddenly needing to write this, so, um. if you liked it, loved it, loathed it, let me know. if the tone is layered in exhaustion..........well, let's chalk that down to both my inability to/lack of sleep (whoa hey projection onto fictional characters again, what's new?) n stylistic liberty (; or whatever makes this look the least lazy
> 
> (sorry)
> 
> (love you)


End file.
